John Woke Up
by AndIllWriteYouATragedy
Summary: "John woke up. To him, that was irritating, this whole business of "waking up". What's the point of waking up from a dream, no, a nightmare, just to be forced into this harsh current reality where he was completely alone?" - John's left to deal with life.


**I needed to write something dreadful and useless and short and good for nothing except releasing random emotion because _The Reichenbach Fall_. So I had my dad turn on the saddest music he has, and I let myself slip into devastation. I don't own anything. Not even my own soul.**

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><p>John woke up. To him, that was irritating, this whole business of "waking up". What's the point of waking up from a dream, no, a <em>nightmare<em>, just to be forced into this harsh current reality where he was completely alone? He almost was mad that he had seen the last moments, because now he had to relive them over and over, in his waking moments and his sleeping ones. Almost mad, though, not quite mad; at least, this way, he'll know what truly happened.

John laid in his bed for a few moments. He stared at the ceiling, ignoring the mess of his room around him that he couldn't bear to touch. Piles of laundry, both dirty and clean, littered the floor, but he couldn't care less. The ceiling offered him no answers, so he gave up and swung himself out of bed.

He discovered the tea kettle already boiling, a cup and saucer set out, little breakfast foods already made up for him and waiting on the table. Mrs. Hudson must've dropped by, figuring he wouldn't have eaten if she didn't prepare something for him. She was completely right.

John made two cups of tea - always two cups, just in case of a miracle - and sat down for his breakfast. Breakfast was quiet, neat, and utterly wrong for 221B. No experiments crowding the table, no mannequins hanging from the ceiling, no silverware being tossed at John in an effort to get his attention or at Sherlock in an effort to shut him up. Silence and order were John's table mates, and he hated them both.

The only reason John forced himself to shower and dress today is that Mrs. Hudson had insisted he see his therapist again. John left the shower, not bothering with a towel or a robe, because what was the point anymore? He grabbed the first set of clothes on his floor that he could reach, dirty or clean, it didn't matter, and pulled them on. He left his hair a mess, slipped his shoes on and tied them clumsily, and met Mrs. Hudson at the door.

"It's the best way, John. You have to work through this, whatever this is. He's been dead for months now." Mrs. Hudson was muttering away to herself as she took John's arm and led him down the seventeen steps. John knew that he worried Mrs. Hudson with this behaviour, but he honestly could not bring himself to care, let alone stop. It was just how he felt, this lack of care, this need for nothing. He just didn't want to wake up anymore.

He was vaguely aware of Mrs. Hudson ushering him into a cab, of travelling through the city with her, watching London pass by through the windows of the cab. He was vaguely aware of all that was happening, and maybe that should've scared him, or alerted him, being a doctor and all. But it did not.

Mrs. Hudson assisted him from the cab into the building, through the building into the waiting room, and from the waiting room into the office. When he had first started coming back, he had been chattier. True, he had also been a lot tearier, but he had talked more. He had told Lucinda, his frustrated therapist, that his best friend was dead. She preferred the chatty tears over this silent, staring John.

Mrs. Hudson sat John down in the chair opposite Lucinda and told them both she'd be waiting in the room outside. Lucinda nodded, and John watched her leave quietly before turning back to Lucinda.

"Will you be talking today?" Lucinda asked. John sighed heavily and readjusted his position in the seat, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"I don't know what to say anymore." John mumbled into his palms. Lucinda leaned forward as well.

"Tell me what you want to tell him. What you would have told him if you had had more time. What do you want to say to Sherlock Holmes, John?" Lucinda had been pushing this for weeks, and John could feel that he was close to snapping.

John tilted his head up to look at her. Why _not _snap now? He was going to do it sooner or later, so he might as well get it over with. Maybe then Lucinda would stop pestering him and just leave him be. John looked towards the window, wondering how high up they were.

"I'd tell him I could help." John said softly. Lucinda shifted, trying not to appear eager but excited that he was actually answering. "I'd tell him that we could get through this together. I'd tell him the world wouldn't be the same without him." John stood up and pretended to pace slightly, timing his movements so he ended by the window. He fiddled with the latch absently. "I'd tell him that nobody would cope well without him. He'd probably laugh, but he'd know that it was true." John pushed the window open, looking at the frame. It could fit his shoulders. If he stepped right onto the moulding there, he'd be fine. "I'd tell him I love him."

"Would you, John?" Lucinda asked, somewhere behind him. John nodded and looked back slightly.

"I'd tell him I'd be with him always." John said softly. There was no answer. John held his breath, pushed himself up onto the moulding, and forced himself through the window.

If it weren't for the hand that grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him back in, he would've died twenty-eight seconds later. John spun around, about to angrily confront Lucinda, when he was met with the grey eyes, curly dark hair, and tall figure of Sherlock Holmes.

"Would you, John?" Sherlock smiled. John's eyes widened, pupils dilated, heart rate sped up.

"But you died. I saw ..." John swallowed and grinned. "I saw it."

"Odd reaction to seeing a death, or possibly a zombie. Smiling." Sherlock commented before he leaned down, about to press a kiss to John's lips.

An irritating buzzing broke through the scene, and John's eyes shot open. It had happened again.

John woke up. To him, that was irritating, this whole business of "waking up". What's the point of waking up from a dream, no, a _nightmare_, just to be forced into this harsh current reality where he was completely alone?

John sighed and got out of bed once more.


End file.
